by Nathan Ronen
A murmur of agreement passed through the audience. Cornfield had been a hopeless optimist.
“Finally, I want to say, Cornfield, I’ll miss you. And I salute you, Ben-Ami, a wise man, a scholar, and a warrior, a mentsch.” Arik felt himself choking up and hastily made his way down from the stage before a tear escaped in public, which would have been unforgivable, as far as he was concerned.
Reserve Colonel Motke Hassin was standing in line to come up to the podium and eulogize his friend on behalf of the Yavne branch of the IDF Veterans’ Association.
Military Secretary Ami Oren, who was standing impatiently at the gate, gestured to Arik, but Arik did not see him. Dozens of people surrounded him, coming over to shake his hand and compliment him on his eulogy. Finally, Oren walked over to Arik and placed his hand on his shoulder. Arik followed him out of the cemetery.
The limo door opened, and the bodyguard signaled for Arik to enter. Ami Oren came in through the opposite door and proceeded to type the transcript of the meeting into a slender laptop.
Ehud Tzur wasted no time. “Arik, now is the time to put aside past differences, as well as the luxury of wanting to be only a senior field operative. I’m asking you to step into Cornfield’s shoes. What do you say?”
“Do I get time to think about it?” Arik asked.
“No, we’re done with arguments and excuses! I’ll submit your candidacy for government approval tomorrow, and immediately afterwards, we’ll inform the media. Agreed?” Ehud Tzur extended his hand.
Arik Bar-Nathan reluctantly offered his own. It was precisely at this spot, Cornfield’s place of burial, that Israel’s security and the stability of the Office seemed more important to him than the both of them. The agreement was sealed with a firm handshake.
The prime minister’s entourage departed. The military secretary and Arik returned to the plaza where the ceremony was taking place. An officer in an Israeli Navy uniform, who turned out to be the military secretary’s assistant, was standing there carrying a massive bouquet on behalf of the prime minister. Two young female officers wearing red berets escorted him in the procession from the eulogy plaza to the military plot, to which the crowd was making its way, following Cornfield’s body. The body was wrapped in a prayer shawl and the blue-and-white Israeli flag with the Star of David at its center. It was laid out on a stretcher placed upon a cart that was transported by six brawny Mossad division heads to the military plot where Cornfield would be laid to rest. Next strode Amira and her children, the immediate family, followed by generations of past Mossad directors, mostly in the eighth decade of their lives, and officers who had accompanied the deceased during his military career. In their wake surged a large crowd of friends, acquaintances, and work colleagues. A mound of bouquets was piled upon the bare grave. In thirty days’ time, the family would return for the unveiling of the memorial tombstone, the matzeva.
Arik found himself drifting slowly toward his car, emotional and on edge. Being appointed as head of one of the best intelligence agencies in the world was no trivial matter. He knew he needed to get Eva’s blessing, and was not certain it was guaranteed.
Chapter 25
The Prime Minister’s Residence, 9 Balfour St., Jerusalem
The fact that Cornfield had been slaughtered at his home haunted Ehud Tzur. He was afraid the perpetrator had been an assassin sent by Boris Kagan, the Russian tycoon from Caesarea, although the head of the Shin Bet had raised two other theories, positing that it had either been cattle thieves interrupted in mid-task, or Iranian intelligence agencies seeking revenge for the Israeli action against them. The third possibility, that of the Russian tycoon, was not known to anyone, and it was important to Tzur to keep it that way.
“Could you check where your friend Maya’s husband is for me?” he asked his wife, seemingly casually, as he emerged from the shower.
Monique called Maya Sando, the tycoon’s wife, on her cell phone. Maya was still in the midst of her afternoon beauty sleep. She told Monique her husband had flown off in his private jet immediately after the party ended, heading for the gas fields in Siberia controlled by his company, Gassibirsk.
Ehud Tzur felt relieved, but doubt was still gnawing at him. These people could not be trusted due to their close, shady connections with Russian intelligence agencies, particularly SVR (the Foreign Intelligence Service, the Russian Mossad) and PSB (the Presidential Security Service, the Russian Federation’s internal security service), as well as to Russian policymakers and the Russian mafia.
On the other hand, he liked the option of making use of an influential man with professional friends within the cyber community. Friends who could motivate potential voters on social networks to vote for him tomorrow, attack his rivals and humiliate them with no official Israeli fingerprints.
It had worked in the United States and other places as well. As a seasoned politician, Tzur knew he would have to pay for this service. The question was, in what currency, and what would the price be?
Chapter 26
Stabbed in the Back
When the heavily attended funeral came to an end, Arik felt hungry. He recalled that other than the meal he had during his business-class Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to Tel Aviv, he hadn’t put anything in his mouth in a while. The driver of the Mossad vehicle transported him to a small but excellent culinary institution in the city of Yavne, a short distance away from the cemetery.
Hummus Ami, in the commercial strip across from the intersection at the northern entrance to Yavne, was empty at this hour. Ami the owner and his staff were busy cleaning and scrubbing the kitchen.
“Do you have one serving of hummus left for a hungry guy?” Arik asked.
Ami intended to apologize and say the kitchen was closed, but asked, “How hungry?”
“As hungry as a dog. I’m so sick of German potatoes and sauerkraut with cooked meat,” Arik complained.
Ami made him a perfect plate: fresh, warm grated hummus, with a pile of minced lamb with hot sauce at its center, covered by a pile of finely chopped coriander leaves. Small bowls of pickled vegetables and plump, handmade Yemenite pitas were placed on the table in a wicker basket. A twenty-ounce glass of chilled Weihenstephaner wheat beer was poured into a glass pitcher produced from the freezer, with a glaze of ice upon it.
Arik went to work. He bit into a small green hot pepper, tore off some pita bread, and dipped it in a generous amount of hummus. Ami observed him, enjoying the smacking of his lips and the sighs of pleasure emanating from his hungry customer.
Once he was sated, he left a twenty-euro bill on the table and drove to his home, at the top of a cliff in nearby Palmachim Airbase. He opened all the windows and aired out the house, which had remained uninhabited for several months. Making himself a cup of coffee, he went out to the balcony, watching the reddish sunset. A light breeze was blowing, bearing rain clouds that, in this season of climatic instability, would ease the steamy heat of the day.
He called Eva’s home in Heidelberg. As usual, her mother answered the phone.
“Frau von Kesselring, it’s Arik. Is Eva home?” he asked.
“I think that at this stage, you can call me Brigitte,” Eva’s mother said, in a startling display of openness.
“I think I’ll call you Mutti (Mom), Brigitte,” Arik concluded, waiting for Eva to get on the line.
He was glad to hear her voice, which sounded better. He told her about the funeral and the tragic circumstances of Cornfield’s death and heard Eva weeping bitterly on the other end of the line.
“No one deserves a tragic death like that. It sounds like the sort of public slaughter performed by ISIS terrorists.”
Arik allowed himself to tear up, feeling his throat closing.
“I have some news about me that might affect our lives, lieblich,” Arik said apprehensively.
“You’ve been asked to be head of the Office, right?” Ev
a asked with a directness that surprised him.
“That’s right,” he said humbly, not knowing what to expect.
Eva surprised him once more. “Well, that won’t be a big change compared to your previous role at the Office. Maybe, for once, you’ll spend more time at home and less in the field.”
“So, do I understand that it’s okay with you?” Arik murmured.
“I’m your wife, I love you, you’re the father of my children, and I think that right now I need to get myself together, come home to Israel, and stand by your side,” she said confidently.
Arik, already used to politicians who diminished or exaggerated every promise, qualified his previous statement. “Look, at the moment, it’s just an offer. The government still has to formally approve my appointment.
“And you’re feeling okay at this stage?” he stammered, flustered, suddenly anxious about her well-being.
“I’ll be fine.” She quickly elaborated, “I still feel a little dizzy, and I believe I’ll need a full-time nanny to help me with housework and with taking care of baby Ethel and our mischievous little Leo. But now you truly need me by your side. Let me get organized here. I’ll come soon because you need me by your side. You stayed by my side when the disaster happened to me.”
Eva’s support greatly lifted his spirits. He had expected passive resistance at best and an aggressive reaction at worst.
He went to take a very hot shower, just the way he liked it, lathering up with ylang-ylang scented soap and shedding the concerns of the day. His mind was already preoccupied with the organizational changes he believed should be carried out immediately at the Office, which had recently been headed by Major General Izzo Galili, a pilot and businessman who had infused the Mossad with his own people, as well as with an organizational culture and ethical values that were not in line with the Mossad’s spirit.
As was his custom, he ended his shower by standing under cold water, emerged from the shower stall, and wrapped himself up in a big, soft robe.
Arik decided to celebrate. He produced a round, amber-colored bottle of Meukow Extra cognac, which bore the logo of a black puma, from the bar and poured himself a shot. His mind was engaged with the future and the weight of his new role. But first, he had to make some calls to the most important people in his life. He called his son Michael, but as usual, he was busy studying or with his girlfriend. Therefore, Arik left a message on his answering machine, letting him know he was about to be appointed as Mossad director. His sister Naomi answered his call immediately, as she feared that Eva’s health had gotten worse, heaven forbid. Arik updated her that he was in Israel as of that morning, after arriving for the funeral of the Mossad director, who had “died of heart failure,” as the media had reported the cause of Cornfield’s death.
“Eva, thank god, is just fine. She’s home in Heidelberg along with Leo and our little baby girl, Ethel-Hannelore.”
“Ethel?” Naomi asked, bursting out in emotional tears.
“Is something wrong?” Arik wondered, flustered.
“No, not at all. That’s just wonderful! That’s the first I’ve heard that you named her after our mother, may she rest in peace,” she said with a liberating laugh.
“The truth is that Eva deserves all the credit. She decided to name our oldest child after our late father Leon, and the baby Hannelore-Ethel, but Eva calls her Ethel, after our mother.”
“And how is Eva feeling now?” Naomi asked, concerned.
“We went through a rough period. In addition to the fall, the fractures in her eye socket, her ribs, and her right arm, she also underwent a C-section while unconscious, immediately followed by a tough emotional period of postpartum depression, which, much to my relief, wasn’t too long. I had her hospitalized in a convalescent home in Heidelberg for rehabilitation. All in all, we went through a difficult period, but Eva’s young and strong, and she’s bouncing back nicely.”
“I’m so sorry to hear what she’s been through. I didn’t know all the details. But on the other hand, that’s great news, my dear brother. And what’s going on with you? How’s your health?” Naomi asked. She did not tell him that she was exhibiting symptoms of leukemia, a disease that would soon snuff out her life.
“I wanted to let you know that the prime minister asked me this morning to take on the role of Mossad director,” Arik informed her.
Naomi began crying once again. “It’s too bad that our parents aren’t with us anymore to share in this achievement and the pleasure over how far their son has come.”
“You’re exaggerating. You brought our parents plenty of achievements and pleasure too, with the educational awards you received, being appointed as daycare personnel supervisor in the northern region, and of course, your three successful children. Orly and Shlomi are both in the legal field, and Ronnie has a PhD in physics. At least our parents were still around to see that.”
“It’s true, but they always expected more from you. Dad passed away when you were in the middle of an ugly divorce trial, and Mom passed away after a long struggle with accursed Alzheimer’s Disease, which deprived her of six years of being truly human. She never got to see you rebuild your life with your new wife, have two more grandchildren named after our parents, receive an award from the president of France, and now being appointed to the most senior position in the Israeli intelligence community.”
Arik, moved, stayed silent on the other end of the line.
Naomi went on. “I want you to come to Haifa early on Friday, and we’ll go visit our parents at the cemetery in Kfar Samir. We’ll tell them the wonderful news, and then you’ll stay for a celebration dinner.”
“Okay,” he promised, glancing at his watch. It was late now. There was no point calling his ultra-Orthodox daughter Nathalie in Jerusalem, who was largely unfazed by the follies of this world. He also could not leave her a message by email or WhatsApp as she did not use a smartphone.
He fell asleep in the big bed, feeling emotional as he thought of his parents and the way the appointment would affect his life and his relationship with Eva and his family.
***
The phone rang early in the morning. Arik picked up the receiver, expecting to be congratulated by his friends the division heads, who had definitely heard the rumor by now.
“Arik Bar-Nathan?” he heard a sonorous bass voice.
“Yes,” Arik replied. “To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Shraga Rechtman, Haaretz’s reporter on military and security matters. I want to talk to you about the plan to appoint you as Mossad director.”
“How do you know about that? I can’t talk about it,” Arik said. “Please wait for an official announcement from the Prime Minister’s Office.”
“An announcement about what?” the senior reporter asked. Arik did not answer.
“I don’t talk to reporters. Where did you get this number?” he asked angrily.
“Oh, come on, really. I didn’t expect a stupid question like that from the former head of Caesarea Operations Division and current second-in-command to the Mossad director,” the journalist replied cynically.
“I’m not second-in-command to the Mossad director, I’m just deputy Mossad director and head of the Operations Administration, and if you really are a military and security reporter, you’re supposed to know that very well. Also, you can’t publish that in the paper because military censorship would delete it immediately.”
“I was at the funeral,” the reporter said, “and heard your words of farewell to Cornfield. I commend you for holding back and not mentioning that Cornfield effectively kicked you out of the Mossad, leaving you no real choice but to become former prime minister Kenan’s national security advisor. I’m about to write a story about Cornfield and reveal that he died under tragic circumstances, as well as mentioning that at the moment, the prime minister has two candidates for the role of Mossad director.
One of them is you, whom I’ll refer to as ‘A.’ in the story, while the other is ‘R.’ and at the moment, the rumor is that she’s passed you by on the way to the big prize.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t deal with rumors, and I have no idea who this ‘R.’ that you’ve just made up is. I also don’t care. Please contact the Prime Minister’s Office for a response. You won’t get anything out of me. Goodbye, sir!” Arik concluded and hung up the phone.
He sent a text message to Military Secretary Ami Oren, updating him on the reporter’s intention of publishing a story on Cornfield, asking him to inform the military censors and block any information regarding the circumstances of Cornfield’s death. He didn’t think the revelation that he had “died under tragic circumstances” would properly honor the late Mossad director’s memory, as in the Israeli media, such phrasing usually signaled a suicide.
Arik called Alex Haimovitz, head of the Mossad’s Intelligence and Research Division. Alex updated him that there were indeed persistent rumors within the security apparatus that Reserve Brigadier General Raya Ron (formerly Rosenberg), General Manager of the Office of Intelligence, Strategy and Regional Cooperation, was about to be appointed as the next director of the Mossad.
"Hogwash,” Arik told him. “Ehud Tzur shook my hand yesterday at the Yavne Cemetery, and I think it’s a done deal in writing, too.”
Alex did not respond.
Despite the confidence with which he spoke, Arik felt doubts filtering in mentally, like a worm gnawing into an apple. Alex did not say another word. He also did not want to tell Arik about the persistent rumors that the other candidate was a butch lesbian who was still not officially ‘out.’
After another reporter called him to get his reaction, off the record, about Raya Ron’s upcoming appointment as Mossad director, Arik called the Prime Minister’s Office.
